Luckily, Cal still had space above the bar available for rent. I make a note to check out some local garage sales for secondhand furniture and write my to-do list on a notepad from the bar. Once I’ve scrawled everything down, I appraise my list.

I’ve got to clean up a bit, get a few basic groceries including cleaning supplies, check in with my drug counselor, call the nearest rehab facility and see about getting my mom admitted, and I saved the best for last.

Make Bluebird fall in love with me. Again.

I got this.

Well . . . except maybe that last one. There is always that fear clawing at the edge of my awareness.

What if my darkness is too dark? What if the accident was the last straw and she can’t forgive me? What if I really and truly just don’t deserve her?

I’ve seen my life without her and it’s bleak and empty and miserable.

I want her.

I need her.

I love her.

I know what love is because of her.

I glance out my smudged window. The glow of the Tavern’s sign is bright from below. I sigh, wishing I could see stars the way Dixie and I used to watch them from her rooftop when we were kids.

Whether she wants to be or not, Dixie Lark is my happily ever after, and even a guy like me can’t help but wish on stars—even if they are made of neon.

My phone buzzes and I retrieve it from my pocket.

Dallas wants one last rehearsal before the battle and he has sent me the time, date, and location. I text back that I’ll be there.

I get to work on unpacking the few belongings I have: a futon, a toaster, a microwave, and more important, my clothes and drum kit. Best part about living above a bar is I don’t have to worry about playing my drums too late or too loud.

Once I’m finished, I realize I’m almost late for work so I throw on a clean shirt, planning to head down to the Tavern. My phone rings in my back pocket. I slide it free, expecting it to be Dallas but seeing “Bluebird” on the screen instead.

I didn’t expect to hear from her so soon, but I’m a liar if I say I’m not fucking thrilled she’s calling me.

“Hey, everything okay?”

“Um, yeah. No. I don’t know.” The promise is clear in her voice. My adrenaline spikes and I try to remain calm.

“Can you tell me what’s wrong? Are you safe? Where are you?”

I can hear the panic in my own voice and I realize I’m gripping the phone hard to enough to dent the damn thing. So much for remaining calm.

“I’m safe. It’s not me.” She sighs loudly. “I’m mean I’m not upset about anything to do with me. I’m at Waffle House with Liam and I just . . . he . . .” Her voice catches and a sob breaks through.

“I’ll be right there.”

“You got here fast,” Dixie tells me when I walk into the Waffle House. When I glance around to see if she’s alone, she explains where her date for the evening is. “He had to go to the bathroom.”

“I was at the Tavern. I rented the loft above it. And I borrowed Cal’s truck.” Now that that’s out of the way, I slide into the booth across from her. “So tell me what’s going on. What’s wrong with Liam?”

Dixie’s eyes are still shining and I can see how hard her throat is working to keep control of the lump of emotion clogging it.

“He . . . He’s got marks, Gav. Like all over. I saw his arms and his back when he was getting into EmmyLou and . . .” She squeezes her eyes shut for a brief moment. “I don’t know if he’s been starved or what but he didn’t even recognize hash browns or scrambled eggs. How is that even possible?”

I sigh and keep my voice down since Liam is walking out of the bathroom and heading toward our booth.

“It’s possible if the person raising you just feeds you enough to keep you alive. Scraps. Boxed and prepackaged stuff. Frozen meals full of unrecognizable substances. He said he doesn’t go to school much.”

The corners of her mouth turn down and my heart cracks open wide in my chest. “Is that how it was for you?” she asks. “Did your mom, did she not . . .”

“No, she didn’t,” I answer quickly. Turning to the side I slide out to let Liam in. I figure he’d prefer his own side of the booth. “Hey, Liam,” I say in greeting. “It is cool with you if I join you for dinner?”

He moves slowly to the middle of the bench so I take the spot next to Dixie.

“It’s breakfast,” he says evenly. Then he looks at Dixie and says, “For dinner. Brinner.”

I smile, remembering when Dallas and Dixie’s grandma used to make bacon and pancakes and sausage gravy with biscuits and eggs however you wanted them for dinner. They called it brinner and I thought it was crazy but I didn’t have any complaints about free food. And no one turned down Nana Lark’s biscuits any time of day or night if they knew what was good for them.

“Awesome,” I say while lifting a sticky laminated menu off the table. “Sounds good to me. What did y’all order?”

“Waffles and bacon and hash browns,” Dixie says. “We were going to get eggs but Liam wasn’t sure if he liked them or not.”

I make a show of carefully considering my menu. “Hm . . . well, how about I get the cheese and eggs plate and you can try ’em out?”

He frowns while considering this and I study him while waiting for an answer. Was I this careful and introspective as a kid? I’m not sure, but Dixie says he reminds her of me and I do see some similarities. Mrs. Lawson has obviously been bathing him but his clothes are about a year too small and his hair is too long and falling in his eyes. His arms are small, wiry, and bruised and contain several sores and old scars.

“I guess that would be okay,” he finally answers, and I have to think for a second to recall my question.

“Great.” I set my menu behind the napkin holder and turn to the frizzy-haired, frazzled-looking middle-aged waitress bringing Liam and Dixie’s OJs to the table. “Can I get a cheese and egg plate, white toast, with bacon and hash browns scattered, covered, smothered, and chunked?”

“Sure, handsome,” the waitress tells me. “And to drink?”

I glance at my companions. “I’ll have what they’re having. Orange juice, straight up.”

Dixie rolls her eyes but Liam looks mildly amused. Kid could use a little entertainment in his life. And I’ve been where he is. Having people feel sorry for you and giving you sad-puppy eyes, while I know they mean well, doesn’t help. It just makes you more uncomfortable because now you’ve got the burden of their pity and pain and discomfort to deal with on top of everything else.

I understand something about Liam that Dixie may never grasp.

He doesn’t know his situation hurts other people because they care about him. He only knows that his life is the way it is, and as far as he knows, everyone goes hungry, or has junkies all over their house, or gets shoved or hit or kicked or sometimes completely ignored like an unwanted pet. I was nearly in middle school before I completely understood that my life wasn’t like everyone else’s—that it wasn’t that way for other kids. What I understood long before that, though, was the pity and sickening sympathy I got from teachers and social workers and ladies from the local Junior League. I didn’t like it and I’m betting Liam won’t, either, so I resolve to behave normally and to try to help Dixie ease up and mask her concerns—for now, at least. I remain cool and calm and laid-back on the surface, making jokes and small talk until our food arrives.

Under the table I am texting Sheila Montgomery like a madman telling her to call me as soon as humanly possible.

After taking a few bites of my food and scooping a few bites of eggs onto Liam’s plate so he can try them out, I realize Dixie isn’t eating. She’s watching Liam. The way he’s testing food to make sure it’s edible—a habit that develops after you’ve desperately ingested soured fruit or chugged milk that has long since gone bad because you had no other option—and then shoveling it in like it’s his last meal once he realizes it’s okay.